Chapter 9
Cheyenne, Wyoming 1867
Lochlan eyed the small parcel suspiciously, his fingers tracing the worn paper. Addressed to his sister, it had arrived from New York, a place Róisín had no recent connections to. Curiosity gnawed at him, a battle raging with the protectiveness he felt for his younger sibling. He set the package on his desk, the decision of opening it hanging in the balance.
Just then, Róisín's light steps echoed down the stairs, her usual cheer dampened by a slight frown. She approached the bar, her gaze landing on the package. Relief washed over her face, a genuine smile replacing the earlier frown.
"Róise," Lochlan called from the office doorway, his voice gruff. "Come here, love. A package arrived for you."
Róisín's smile widened as she hurried over. "Finally!" She exclaimed, tearing into the brown paper with a hint of impatience. "Lochlan, I didn't want ta tell you about it until…" Her voice trailed off as she revealed the contents – spools of thread, a glint of scissors, and a packet of needles.
Lochlan leaned against the doorframe, furrowing his brow. "Sewing supplies?"
Róisín held up a spool of thread, her eyes gleaming with a newfound purpose. "There used to be a tailor here, someone who mended the workmen's clothes. Carson told me he fell ill and went back east. Now, the men have ta patch their own clothes or wear them ragged."
Lochlan's skepticism seeped into his voice. "What exactly are you getting at, Róisín?"
A determined set formed on Róisín's jaw. "I don't want to work at the saloon," she declared. "I plan on offerin' sewing services."
Lochlan scoffed. "You'd rather do that than pour a few drinks and clean tables?"
Róisín's smile vanished, replaced by a deep sigh. "Don't you understand, Lochlan? The men… they leer at me constantly. It's not just the comments or advances, it's the way they look at me. And it doesn't stop there. I've been grabbed, cornered…" Shame tinged her voice, a stark contrast to her usual vibrancy.
Lochlan's face hardened. "Why didn't you tell me about this? I wouldn't have tolerated it for a second."
A flicker of sadness crossed Róisín's features. "You run a brothel, Lochlan. It's a place where men come to drink and… have their way. How can I expect respect here, even if you are my brother?"
Lochlan felt a pang of guilt twist in his gut. He hadn't fully considered the harsh reality Róisín faced under his roof. Shame washed over him, a bitter aftertaste for the "protection" he'd offered.
"I'm sorry, Róisín," he finally said, his voice thick with regret. "I understand now."
Róisín offered him a sad smile, the relief in her eyes evident. "Thank you," she whispered, pulling him into a tight hug.